


These Are the Contents of My Head (formerly "Why?")

by pepparkakor



Category: Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Enemies, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, sinister flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-04-28 08:34:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14445435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepparkakor/pseuds/pepparkakor
Summary: Set in Episodes 4/5, after the events at the Bodhi Spa. What if Bruce had decided to stop using John and tried instead to care for him? Or, Bruce starts to feel an uncomfortable attraction to John and tries to cope by having him institutionalized. It goes poorly, but at least there’s cake!





	1. Strong Suits

**Author's Note:**

> It's a slow start and the beginning doesn't deviate too much from canon, I know -- but I promise that changes! Some dialogue incorporated from the game, some of it from my brain, and some of it from song lyrics. Listening to a bunch of sad music really helped jump-start the writing.
> 
> Let me know what you think! This is my first real attempt at fanfic (other than some fluff I wrote in high school and the "erotic friendfiction" I wrote in college), so any constructive comments are very appreciated. Thank you for reading!

Cautiously, Bruce pushed open the door to Harley’s office in the Old Five Points. Agent Avesta flanked him, gripping her firearm. The room seemed quiet, yet as they entered, a wave of beer fumes rolled over the two. John sat slumped over the desk, piles of cash and a few empty bottles heaped around him. Bruce reached for his friend’s wrist, intending to gauge a pulse, his own heart thudding hard with worry. Something compelled his hand farther, and for a second it hovered over John’s soft green hair--

“Bruce!” John lurched upward, grinning painfully. “You came,” he giggled, eyes wide with delight. A fresh bruise ringed his left eye. Had the Agency done that...? Harley…?

“Where is she, John?” Bruce demanded as Avesta relaxed, lowered her gun. “Where’s Harley?”

John’s face hardened almost imperceptibly as he ignored the question, turned to Avesta. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced!” He snickered menacingly. “You seem...familiar.”

Bruce caught the change in timbre, hastily reevaluated his approach. “She’s...a friend. Like you,” he said softly.

“Ohhhhhhh no, Brucie-boy. I don’t think so. Not like me...not many friends like _me_.” Again John giggled. “But then, not many friends at all where you’re concerned, right? I’m beginning to think... _frrrriendship_...isn’t one of your strong suits.” He threw his head back and cackled at that one. “Get it? Strong suits? Because...y’know….” He coughed. “All those, ah, tuxes. And...er, _muscles_.” Bruce flinched as John’s eyes roamed over him. He could swear that John was holding something back. That he _knew_ something.

“You’re drunk,” Bruce said accusingly, gesturing to the bottles.

John’s smile dropped. He bowed his head, sighed. “She left,” he whispered, looking up at Bruce through his lashes.

“She was here?” Bruce leaned in, put his hands on the desk. “Yeah,” John said mournfully. He burped. It sounded close to a retch. How much had he actually drunk? There must have been five bottles on the desk alone. Bruce could hear others rolling around under the desk by John’s feet. He didn’t think someone as lean as John could still be conscious after that kind of binge.

“Where is she now, John?” Bruce insisted, voice deepening with authority. “This is important.”

John’s stared at the desk like it held the answer, then looked up. “You got some real nerve, y’know that” -- he stood suddenly, slammed both fists into the desk -- " **buddy?** " He spat the word out like bitter fruit. “Remember...the cafe? _‘Just be yourself, John. Who wouldn’t love the real you, John?’_ ”

Bruce recognized himself despite the feeble impression, and the...adlibbing.

“Then you told me you’d have my back. We’d have each other. You and me!” John’s voice broke with emotion, then turned sing-songy as he continued, “Bruce and John. John and Bruce. J and B. B and… you get where I’m going. And for what? She’s gone! And I have nothing!”

“That’s not true,” Bruce objected, “you have me.”

“You!?” John pointed at him accusingly. “You steered me wrong at every turn. Every bad piece of advice. Everything blew up in my face.” Despite the explosion sound effect he made, it sounded like John was about to cry. Bruce searched for the right thing to say or do.

_Better not to admit responsibility,_ Bruce thought. _John is so impressionable, who knows how far he would take it?_

“This isn’t my fault. Harley betrayed you, betrayed both of us.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t in love with…” John cast a sideways glance at Bruce. “...her.” He licked his lips. “There’s no point. It’s over. The Pact. The dream...Us.”

Bruce didn’t know which “us” John meant. He was afraid to ask. Did John mean that he and Harley were over, or…? Bruce pushed the thought from his mind. He needed to focus. First he would deal with Harley, make sure the city was safe. Then he could reach out to John properly. He could fix this, fix everything. There was still time.

He tried to appeal to John’s hope, his empathy. “Not yet it’s not. She’s still out there, with a deadly virus in a city full of innocent people.” As Bruce spoke, John wandered over to a table, fondled the gun that lay there. Harley’s gun. He picked it up.

“Call me,” John said harshly, “when I give a damn.” He waved the gun in Bruce’s direction with no real intention. Yet. Bruce took a step back.

“John…” _No._

“It always surprises me...how heavy guns are,” John murmured. It did look too heavy, too stark in his pale, slim hand. Bruce had the sudden urge to pick John up, to fold those long thin limbs into his body and cradle John like a lamb.

“It’s gonna be okay John, I promise.” _Please,_ Bruce prayed silently to no one, _let it be true. I can still save him._ “I care, John. You know that.”

Desperation made his voice too hard. He cursed himself mentally. He had never been one for tenderness. He tried to make soft eyes at John, like he had learned from Gordon in his negotiations with active shooters. But John wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at the gun.

“I’m nearly out of reasons to believe you anymore, Bruce,” John choked out. But a moment later, he made a disgusted sound and threw the gun onto the desk. Bruce’s shoulders relaxed; he saw Avesta drop her arms as well.

“Well,” John said, clapping his hands together with a smile, “it’s been real.” He sauntered past the two, toward the door.

“What are you doing, John?” asked Bruce, wary of the sudden shift in his mercurial friend.

“Leaving!” John announced. “There’s nothing left for me here but a lot of bad memories...and a weird smell.” Surprised, Bruce smothered a hysterical laugh, remembering the way he had recently poked Riddler’s rapidly decomposing face.

Agent Avesta blocked John’s exit. “John, I understand you want to run. I’ve run before. But problems, they just come with you, no matter how far you go.”

For a moment, John seemed to be listening, face somber, but then -- “Nope! Pretty sure I can get away from that smell.”

“Dammit, John,” Bruce broke in, “listen to me! I. Need. To find Harley.”

“I don’t want to do this anymore!” John exclaimed. “Not for you. Not for her. Certainly not for _Gotham!_ ” Bruce closed the distance between them and clapped a hand on John’s shoulder, right above the flower he had perennially tucked into his boutonniere. John glanced at the hand with a forlorn expression.

“John, please,” Bruce urged. “This is important.” He was starting to feel desperate, no longer certain that he could reason with someone so obviously divorced _from_ reason. John’s shoulder was warm but bony beneath Bruce’s gloved hand; he could feel the sharpness of the smaller man’s clavicle. Ignoring Avesta’s presence and the flush creeping across his face, Bruce traced his fingers along John’s collarbone and up his neck to cup the side of his face. John’s mouth gaped slightly and surprise bloomed in his vivid green eyes.

Bruce continued, so only John could hear him. “I know it hasn’t been easy for us, but I am your...friend.” He gently touched the bruise under John’s eyes with the tip of his fingers, then dropped his hand to his side.

“Ah...okay, buddy,” John said, his eyes boring into Bruce’s searchingly. He cleared his throat and pulled away from Bruce, moving across the room. “Look. The Agency was here. They took the blood. I was up here, in a _very_ dark place. They didn’t find me...but Harley did.”

Bruce felt a sudden rush of anger. So she _had_ hit John. What was wrong with that woman? The former psychiatrist couldn’t have more fully abandoned her ethics. “Do no harm.” _Hah._ Bruce laughed sharply, tried to turn it into a cough. His sense of humor was becoming worse than John’s.

Avesta shot a strange look at Bruce and addressed John. “Where do you think Ms. Quinn is now? We’d like to find her...sooner than later.”

“I don’t want to find her,” John wailed. “My heart can’t take another kicking! I don’t ever want to see her again. She ruined me. I can’t!”

Bruce had an idea. He didn’t give himself time to second-guess it, but strode forward with purpose, capturing John in his arms and pressing his lips to his. John froze in surprise, his mouth hard against Bruce’s, then softened for just a moment before ripping away and leaning over the desk.

John’s shoulders trembled, then stilled. He turned back, expression gleeful.

“I just can’t say _**no**_ to you, Bruce,” he said, roaming over to the flabbergasted Avesta’s side and nudging her in the ribs with his elbow. “You gotta keep an eye on this guy. That Wayne charm gets ‘em every time!” Bruce smiled at his friend, satisfied that the risk had paid off.

But John continued, “You sure know how to play me. All the right ways to twist my arm!” The smile on John’s face was sinister, knowing. “It’s going to take me a few hours to find her. I have to check a few places. Do some...things.” He shrugged.

“Okay, we’ll come with you,” Bruce replied, pushing his luck.

John laughed mirthlessly. “No! You won’t.” His voice dropped an octave and something uncurled in Bruce’s stomach, pleasurable and discomfiting all at once. “There will be plenty of time for John and Bruce, later.”

_Plenty of time._ Bruce shivered. There wasn’t time enough in the world to -- _Where were these thoughts coming from?_

“Wait, hold on,” Avesta said. “We’d...really like your help, John.” Bruce admired her diplomacy. It was all he could do not to scream, _Don’t go. I’m afraid for you._ Batman held him in check.

“It’s okay. Go.” To Avesta, he said, “He’ll come through. He’s done it before.”

John turned to look at Bruce. “It’s funny,” he said, and for once John wasn’t laughing. “When you first walked through that door, I honestly thought you came here to check on _me._ ” Then he was gone.

Bruce’s stomach plummeted, roiled with shame. Avesta turned to him. “Well, your methods are certainly...unorthodox, but I have to admit that they worked. Maybe you should kiss all the criminals you interrogate,” she teased. Bruce barely heard what Avesta said next, something about the vials. Not for the first time where John was concerned, he felt conflicted. What was it about the man that made working for the greater good feel...bad?


	2. Under Strain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was really feeling "Why" by Annie Lennox for some of the dialogue for these two. Not sure if it worked... but it definitely helped inspire me.

_Bonus Brothers Carnival, 11:28 PM_

 

Bruce felt like he must be trapped in John’s mind. Had John created the Fun House, or had it inspired him? It was an eerie place, a child’s neon nightmare. Here and there a mannequin with a vapid smile, stairs to nowhere -- they seemed representative of false friends, false leads, to Bruce’s guilty mind. False hope. And through it all, an endless, screaming laughter, part of the Fun House’s soundtrack… but just past that, Bruce thought he heard real screams. John’s? He rushed across the boardwalk and through the tunnel toward increasingly hideous laughter.

“Oh god, oh god, please…!” _John_. Who was making him beg like that? Harley? Bruce crept forward, peered around the doorframe. The huge, gap-toothed maw of a clown yawned back at him from across the room, and between its jaws lay a bloodied agent. Dead?

“You’re not making this easy on me, you know!” John rasped, still out of sight. “What am I going to say to Bruce? I-it, it wasn’t me! I-I-I-I-I mean, it WAS me, but i-it was self-defense.”

Bruce rounded the corner. At first the sight of John kneeling with his face to the wall pulled at his heart -- _oh, John_ \-- but then he saw the mannequin John was addressing. No. Not a mannequin.

“I know--I know it’s..! ...Bruce?” John turned from the work of propping up the blonde agent’s lifeless head, pulled his stained hands back guiltily. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

He stood, wringing his hands. “P-please, it’s...it’s not what it looks like. I can explain. Just...try...and reserve judgment.” Bruce could see now that his clothes were soaked with blood. Bruce knew then that whether or not John told the truth, it didn’t matter. He was lost to him. Bruce’s chest felt tight, painful.

“Breathe, John. It’s going to be okay,” Bruce lied. “Calm down.”

John nodded frantically, looking hopeful. “Y-you’re right. I should do my exercises.” He took a few shallow, shuddering breaths, a poor approximation of whatever CBT technique Dr. Leland had tried to teach him. Bruce moved closer, gripped John by the shoulders. He felt the other’s body tense, then relax. John still wouldn’t look him in the eye.

“What happened?” Bruce asked. “Is Harley here?” John scowled and Bruce shook his head. _Dammit_.

“I’m sorry,” he tried, “I care about what happened to you, but I need to know that we’re safe...for now.”

“She left as soon as I got here,” John replied. “The agents came looking for her. They’re not just supposed to start shooting, Bruce!” He broke away, threw his arms in the air. “They’re supposed to say, “Hands up!” I’ve seen it on the TV.” John’s voice quavered and Bruce sucked in a breath. How much of John’s reality was constructed by what he’d seen on the rare days that he earned television privileges in Arkham? His naivete would have been sweet, except that it almost got him killed. Except that his innocent expression was speckled with blood.

Bruce tried to focus on John’s explanation, but his mind was occupied with problem-solving, damage control. His reverie was interrupted by John’s manic laughter. Suddenly, all the grief he felt coalesced into rage.

“You think this is funny!?” he roared.

John stiffened, the laughter dying on his lips. “I’m sorry -- I-I ah, I always laugh when I’m n-nervous.” He slowly moved to Bruce’s side, groveling like a subdued puppy. “I just went on...autopilot. Something took over! S-something...dark...bent on... _survival_. It didn’t stop until I was safe.”

John placed a tentative hand on Bruce’s arm. “You...believe me, don’t you, Bruce?”

Bruce jerked away without thought. John looked stricken.

“You’re supposed to be on my side! I guess I’m an idiot for expecting that, aren’t I?”

“What do you mean?” Bruce asked, regretting his actions and wishing he could reach out and gather John back into his arms. His body ached with the effort of keeping those same arms folded, firm.

“Whatever _this_ is between us...it’s off-balance. I have forgiven YOU _over and over._ ..but how many times,” John growled sorrowfully, “do I have to try to tell you...th-that I’m sorry? For the... _things…_ I’ve done. I t-try and--”

Bruce cut in. “Sorry…? I might believe you, John, I’m just not sure that it matters. It’s clear this kind of trouble’s only just begun. I don’t think “sorry” is going to be enough.”

John whirled away, hurt and anger flashing in his verdant eyes. He pounded his fists on his head.

“Stupid, _stupid!_ I tell myself...all the _time…_ ”Why don’t you ever learn to keep your big mouth shut!?”” he ground out through gritted teeth. “B-but that’s why it HURTS -- so _bad_ \-- to hear the words that just FALL from your MOUTH. I thought you were my friend! But you never seem to think about what _I_ want. What _I_ need! The goodwill only flows one way! And that _kiss_ \-- I know it was only meant to fool me into working for you. You don’t really care about me!”

“John,” Bruce protested cautiously, “I do care about you. I care about what you need. That’s why I think it would be best if we--”

“Don’t!” John shrieked. “I may be mad, I may be...blind, at times. I may be vicious!” he said, gesturing around him at the blood-spattered walls. “But I can still read what you’re _thinking_ . I’m not going back to Arkham, Bruce. I’ve heard it said too many times, _“You’d be better off…”_ Besides--”

“John,” Bruce cried in frustration, “why can’t you see it? This boat hasn’t just sailed...it’s sinking.”

John paused. “Boat, eh?” A light came into his eyes. “Funny you should say that, Brucie-boy.”

“What?”

“Harley! After we raided the Agency’s convoy, Harley stashed one of their trucks here. And now it’s gone, which means she’s getting out of town. Across the Gotham Bridge!”

John looked coyly over his shoulder at Bruce.

“We can stop her, together! Let’s go down to the water’s edge, and we can cast away these...doubts...that have come between us. We’re still two threads in the same stitch, even under strain.”

He turned and walked slowly toward Bruce, almost sauntering, swaying his narrow hips. He drew in until Bruce could smell the metallic wince of iron on his clothes, feel the tips of John’s shoes meet his.

“Sometimes...it seems like the stitches under strain aren’t purely...metaphorical, if y’know what I’m saying,” John purred meaningfully, looking Bruce up and down and...down. Bruce repressed the urge to cover himself. He frowned deeply.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Ah ah ah, Brucie...I think you do. I’ve seen the way you look at me. I’m a watcher, I told you. And the thing I love most to watch...is you...watching _me_.”

“That’s completely absurd,” Bruce said, swallowing hard. “And even if you thought it were true...some things are better left unsaid.” John smiled so widely it seemed like his face might split open.

“Maybe you’re right!” John replied in that sing-song of his, then turned serious, his tone low and guttural. “But they still turn me inside out.

“And you would know what that’s like, wouldn’t you?” he continued. “Having the kind of secrets that eat you up inside. You forget, I _know_ you, the _real_ you. Always hiding behind some kind of mask! Businessman, playboy, _criminal…_ ” He trailed off. “But you can’t fool a friend. Someone who really takes the time to look, to care. And I know you... _care_...about me. Just...not in the way you say you do.”

John leaned forward so that his lips grazed Bruce’s earlobe and whispered huskily, “ _You want me._ ”

Electricity raced up Bruce’s spine; he jumped, shoved John with his full force. The thin man went flying, landing with his legs up over his head in a sticky pool of blood. He rolled to a sitting position and laughed shrilly, rocking back and forth, his head thrown back grotesquely.

“Stop! STOP IT!” Bruce shouted.

John quieted abruptly. Locking eyes with Bruce, he smiled. “Okay! My mistake. A boy can dream, can’t he?”

He cocked his head to the side, still grinning. “Or do you just need your batsuit to really get you in the mood?”

Bruce felt like Victor had him by the throat. “What?”

John rolled his eyes. “Oh, c’mon...are we really going to do this? Do I even have to say how obvious it was when you rushed off from the cafe to that big batlight in the sky? Very _rudely_ , I might add. Our little date was just getting good!”

Bruce paused. He was still off-balance from John’s prior insinuation and now this...unmasking. He shook his head slightly, trying to clear it. Maybe if he told the truth here, it would redeem the lies before, the lies to come. He nodded grimly.

“Okay, fine. You figured it out. I’m impressed, actually.”

“That’s only because you still underestimate me, Bats,” John remarked without bitterness, rising to his feet and brushing ineffectually at the blood that saturated his clothing. “But I’m willing to overlook that if you’ll do something for me.”

“What would that be?”

“I’ll take a do-over on that lousy kiss,” John said, then burst out laughing when Bruce’s face blanched. “Kidding, kiddinggg, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal. No. I want you to let me help you stop Harley.”

“I can’t do that,” Bruce said sternly.

“Oh c’monnnn. All I’m asking is that you have a little faith in me. I’ve always come through, haven’t I? I won’t even say that you owe me, but...I’ll definitely imply it,” John wheedled.

Bruce considered as John watched him, hands clasped imploringly.

“This is a mess,” Bruce finally said, “and we still need to have a very serious talk about it. But for now...I believe you. And I need your help.”

John stepped toward him, gripped Bruce in a handshake, and pulled him into a hug. Bruce exhaled sharply in surprise. John’s arms were uncannily strong given his lean frame. Bruce felt somehow safe in those arms, despite -- or because of..? -- who held him. He almost relaxed, almost lay his cheek against that odd green hair, but John was already off toward the Fun House exit, rubbing his hands together eagerly.

“We’re gonna be _heroes_.”


	3. A Different Dream

Bruce and John pulled up to the bridge, where they could see Harley pacing before a group of frightened hostages some hundred yards away. Waller and her agents watched from a safe distance, evaluating.

 _“Get back!”_ they could hear Harley yelling. _“Blow this bridge...Riddler’s blood!”_

“Stand down, Quinn!” Waller parried. “No one needs to get hurt!” Bruce very much doubted the sincerity of that statement, given the situation. Next to him, John tore at his hair.

“They’re gonna kill her! I have to do something!”

Bruce reached out and touched his arm in what he hoped was a comforting way.

“Don’t worry, John. She’ll be safe.” _Though why you still care is beyond me,_ he thought. John distractedly covered Bruce’s hand with his and Bruce felt that odd sensation in his stomach again. Since when had electric eels taken up residence in his gut?

He cleared his throat. “Let’s go meet Waller, see if we can help.”

Though Waller shirked John’s bloodied handshake, she seemed open to the idea of accepting their aid. “Harley’s making demands we simply can’t meet,” she said. “I’m running out of options.”

Bruce looked at John, who was looking at Harley. Bruce refused to feel jealous.

“You can do it, John,” he said, reaching out to take his friend’s hand. “I believe in you.”

John shot him a lopsided grin and slid his hand out of Bruce’s grip until the last fingers connected were their pinkies. Then he was gone, walking out to meet Harley.

Bruce watched intently as John and Harley went through a series of unnerving charades. Waller’s hands fidgeted with the radio, her face like a thundercloud.

“Trust him, Waller,” Bruce murmured. “He’ll come through. He always does.”

“With a marriage proposal, maybe,” she snarled, “not a successful resolution to the situation at hand.” Bruce narrowed his eyes. _Marriage proposal?_ His fists clenched unconsciously.

“That won’t happen,” he said.

“And if you’re right? What about afterward?” Waller demanded. “I can’t just let him go free, not after what he did to my men.”

Bruce flushed with anger. “What _he_ did--?” He fought to control himself. _You need to help John._ “I have a...plan.”

A van rolled up behind them and two broad, grim-faced men in white polo shirts and slacks stepped out. Waller looked at Bruce in sudden understanding. Someone exited the passenger seat of the van and Bruce caught her eye, then --

“You two-timing sonuvabitch!” Harley shrieked as John brought her to the ground.

“Don’t struggle, Harley,” he said, and Bruce could see the pain in John’s face even from his vantage point. Bruce felt a surge of pride commingled with guilt. His friend had made good on his promise, but he hated to see him hurt.

“Get her out of here,” Waller said, a satisfied look on her face. Two agents seized Harley and pulled her away.

“How could ya, John? You broke my heart,” Harley cried softly, twisting in their arms. She almost sounded human.

“Bruce showed me how to be _good_ , Harley, in a way you never could,” John growled. The virus gleamed in his hand.

Bruce and Waller walked toward him. When John turned and saw Bruce, he fairly flung himself into his arms. Bruce didn’t hesitate this time. He wrapped his arms all the way around his friend’s lithe body and held him close. John was shaking and Bruce could feel his heartbeat through his vest. Mindless of the agents around them, Bruce pressed his cheek to John’s hair and yes, it really was as soft as it looked, despite the odd color and the dried blood that left some strands crispy.

 _“You did it,”_ he said so only John could hear, and felt the tension in his body ease somewhat.

Waller quirked an eyebrow up at the two. She held out her hand.

“If I may interrupt… The virus, please.” With reluctance, Bruce detached from John, although he kept one arm around the other man’s lissome waist. John shook his head firmly.

“I don’t think so.”

“Well then,” Waller said, leveling her gun at John, “we no longer require your service.”

“No!” Bruce shouted. He used one arm to tuck John behind him; the other he extended in Waller’s direction. “What are you doing!? He helped us!”

“I can’t allow you to leave with that virus,” Waller insisted, gun still aimed. Bruce could tell that the safety was still on, and that gave him some hope, even as he could _feel_ John bristling with rage and fear.

“No one is leaving,” Bruce said. “Let’s just talk about this.” He thought quickly. Waller’s plans for the virus were suspect, but she was too arrogant, too desperate to deny -- she might blow up the whole bridge herself just to get what she wanted. He couldn’t let John keep the virus; even if Waller didn’t shoot him, it was far too dangerous for someone untrained to handle. Furthermore, even at his best John was still a wild card. But if Bruce could get the virus, he could denature it in his lab, render it harmless.

“I’ll take it for now,” Bruce called out to Waller, “and we can arrange a time for you to pick it up later, when everyone’s a little bit...calmer.”

“You can’t--” John hissed in protest. Bruce squeezed John’s hand in what he hoped was a reassuring way.

“Pinky. Promise,” Bruce whispered through his teeth, so that his lips didn’t move, and John quieted. Waller appeared to be considering the offer.

“I want to see it in your hand,” she said, “or no deal.”

Bruce turned to John and nodded. John rubbed the back of his neck reluctantly and shuffled his feet a little for good measure, then handed it over along with Harley’s detonator. Bruce held them aloft so Waller could see, and smiled down at John.

“Good,” he said. “That’s good, John.” John grinned back. Waller and her agents pulled back to attend to the explosives in the stolen truck as the two walked slowly to Bruce’s car.

“Were you at all...worried,” John asked haltingly, “...that I wouldn’t come back?”

“I…” Bruce thought about how his insides had twisted when Harley kissed John and smiled so triumphantly over his shoulder at Bruce. He had been furious, but he hadn’t been worried. He had been...jealous. “Not for a moment.”

John jumped on Bruce, threw his arms around his neck, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Your trust,” John gushed, “means _everything_ , Bruce.” Bruce could feel himself blush. He put a hand to his cheek as John beamed at him.

“Mr. Doe!” A warm, gentle voice called, and a familiar figure stepped into view. John looked confused as he took in the close-cropped hair, the long white coat.

“...Dr. Leland? What are you doing here?”

Leland looked at John with a terrible sadness in her eyes, then tenderly took his hand.

“Your friend called me,” she said. “He was worried about you.” The two orderlies came up alongside Bruce and John, one on either side. The larger one held a straitjacket. John dropped Dr. Leland’s hand and stepped back.

“No…” he said slowly, “I’m not going back. I’m not going to Arkham. I’m staying here, with Bruce.”

“John...I think you should go,” Bruce said, “I’m the one who called her.” John whipped his head around to look at Bruce, tears springing into his eyes.

“Tell me,” John raged, “ ** _why._ ** Tell me why!”

“John, please -- I’m trying to help you.”

“Help me! By betraying me!?”

“Betraying you--? John. You killed people!”

“In self-defense! You.. _said_..you BELIEVED me!”

“John, please, you aren’t doing well.” Bruce took a deep breath. “I know...I know how you feel, and I’m sor--”

“Oh, do you know how I feel? ‘Cause I don’t think you know. I don’t think you know what I feel.” John scrubbed angrily at his eyes. “All our time together, and this is what it represents? You’ve made it so VERY clear that I could never tread the same path as you. That you could never see me as...as a...hero.”

John’s voice broke on the last word. His eyes narrowed.

“If that’s how you see me...so be it. I’ll dream a different dream instead."

John broke away from the orderlies and ran to the edge of the bridge. He leaped to the railing and flung his arms wide. Dread clutched at Bruce’s heart and he lunged toward John, reaching for his tie, his vest. For a moment, he had him by a thread...then John fell backward into the river, laughing. Gone.


	4. Denatured

Bruce hadn’t heard from John in two weeks. Part of him was certain that John was dead, that the fall from the bridge had been fatal. After all, the Gotham Bridge was a popular spot for jumpers; all too often those with death on their minds had been successful, had succumbed to the dark, fast-moving water below. It hurt him to think of John lying at the bottom of the river, his cold lips pulled permanently back in a rictus. It hurt him to think that he had driven John to it...so he didn’t. Bruce pushed it out of his mind and focused on his work. Even without the Pact on the streets, there was still plenty for Batman to deal with.

Besides...John was surprisingly resilient. He had survived Arkham, the Pact, the Agency, and any number of potential threats in his mysterious past. He was alive.  _He had to be._

In the meantime, Bruce had to handle Waller. She still thought he had the virus and had just been too busy to arrange a meeting, when in truth he had used the lab to render the virus inert immediately after the incident at the bridge. Well, Alfred and Tiffany had rendered it inert. For once, exhaustion overwhelmed the shame of weakness and it was all Bruce could do to crawl into bed that night, rather than pass out at the Batcomputer.

It was a little strange that Waller hadn’t come after him more quickly, but Bruce wasn’t thinking about her. He was thinking about John: the way his face lit up when Bruce had accepted his “Get Well Soon” card at the funeral; how he had ordered the biggest, sweetest drink at Cafe Triste; the promise in his eyes when Bruce had touched him for the first time; the way John’s voice dipped and soared like a swallow when he was excited. How fragile John felt in his arms. The broken look on his face when he knew that Bruce had given him up...

No. He wasn’t thinking about John. John was gone. Bruce was focused. Bruce was...Bruce was thinking about himself in third person too much.

Bruce’s phone buzzed. It was Waller.

“Bruce, I’ve given you plenty of time to...mourn, or whatever the hell it is you’ve been doing. Now I  _need_ that virus. Bring it to the GCPD, or I go public with your identity.”

Bruce scowled to himself, but kept his voice even. “And what if I don’t have it anymore?”

“I don’t want to burn you down, Bruce, but I will. Virus. GCPD. Two hours.” She hung up.

Bruce sighed and went down to his lab. The virus was still there in its tube, though it no longer glowed. His fingers flexed around the cool glass. For a moment he just held it in his hand, longing to smash it.

“Master Bruce, is everything alright?” Alfred’s crisp accent interrupted his reverie. His butler had walked in with a tray; he stood at attention by the record player. “I brought your dinner…”

“Not now, Alfred,” Bruce muttered petulantly. “I’m not hungry.” Alfred frowned and walked over to him, setting the tray on Bruce’s desk.

“You haven’t eaten in days. You need to keep your energy up.” He set a hand tenderly on Bruce’s shoulder. “I know that the past couple of weeks have been difficult for you. I want you to know that you’re not alone. I care.”

Alone. Bruce deserved to be alone. John was alone, in his watery grave.

_I care about you, John. You know that._

_I’m nearly out of reasons to believe you anymore, Bruce!_

But he had believed Bruce, for far too long. Bruce shuddered and shook his head. “I have to go. Waller is waiting for me at the GCPD...she’s not going to be happy when she sees this.” He held up the darkened virus. “I need to suit up.”

“Very well.” Alfred picked the tray up again, sighing in resignation. As Bruce got up to leave, he cast a guilty look over his shoulder.

“Hey, Al…? Thanks.” Alfred gave a short bow and smiled back at him.

“All in the line of duty, Master Bruce.”

\-------------------------

Bruce stood beside the Bat-Signal and looked out over his city. Gotham was peaceful for the moment. He sighed, drinking in the view, his cape fluttering slightly with the breeze. At least one thing he loved hadn’t been taken from him. Not yet, anyway.

“Batman!” The door to the roof opened and Waller stepped out.

“Waller. Odd place for a meeting, the GCPD rooftop. Or don’t you have an office?” Waller smiled at him, her eyes flinty.

“I thought you deserved one last look at the sky, before I lock you away someplace so dark you’ll understand how your asshole feels. That is, unless you’ve got my virus.”

Bruce clenched his jaw but withdrew the vial from his utility belt. He tossed it to Waller and she caught it deftly. As she examined the virus, she bared her teeth in anger.

“What have you done with this? It’s useless!”

“I told you,” Bruce said, “I didn’t have it anymore. John was right. It’s too dangerous for anyone to have...especially you.” He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at Waller in smug satisfaction.

“Fine.” Waller threw the tube to the edge of the roof, where it shattered. “You have been a thorn in my ass since day one. I’ve tried everything to get you to see reason, but you’re just too damn stubborn. And now, you’ve finally crossed the line.”

The door to the rooftop opened once more. Bruce recognized Bane’s heavy footfalls before he saw him, followed by Harley and... _Catwoman?_ Around each of their necks were glowing red collars.

Waller laughed at Bruce’s stunned silence. “They all work for me now. A special task force for special problems. And soon you’ll be just like them, one of the team.”

“I don’t want to work with that gloomy inkblot,” Harley sighed, sledgehammer hoisted over her shoulder. Bruce was forced to agree.

“You’ll never control me,” Bruce growled, but a cold sensation spread through his stomach. If Waller had been able to subdue these three, what couldn’t she do?

“Oh, baby,” Waller opened her arms wide, “I know your type. All brooding and stiff on the outside, and on the inside, just begging for someone to press a boot to your neck. Lucky for you, dominance happens to be my specialty. I just don’t need to dress up in latex” -- she jerked a thumb at Catwoman -- “to prove it. Remember, I still know your identity. Turn yourself in to me, and I’ll make sure your collar’s the same nice, matte black as your suit.”

 _Go fuck yourself_ , Bruce thought. Batman didn’t swear. Batman did, however, sometimes attack without giving the courtesy of a warning, which was perhaps not the best etiquette.  _Alfred would be so disappointed if he knew._  Bruce threw two batarangs at Waller’s face before dodging left and anchoring Bane to the ground with the mini grappling hooks fired from his forearm. Harley came at him then (Bruce still wasn’t sure how she wielded that hammer with so much ease, hard to hide that kind of muscle in such tight leather), swinging her weapon as though she were a particularly nightmarish lumberjack. He crossed his forearms to block her, absorbing the impact with a grunt. Harley smiled sweetly, then pressed a button on the hammer’s grip. Electricity lanced through Bruce and threw him backwards across the roof, where he handed on his hands and knees.

“The Agency gave me a little upgrade,” Harley quipped, sauntering toward him. “Whaddya think?” Bruce dodged her next attack and Harley struggled to regain her balance; the next two swings went wide and he was able to land a kick. Harley was tiring, and when she attempted to hit him again he grabbed the sledgehammer and headbutted her in the face, wresting the weapon from her. Activating its charge, Bruce socked it into Harley’s stomach like a battering ram, taking her down.

Waller had recovered from the batarangs and sent Catwoman after Bruce. He and Selina were evenly matched, trading blow for blow, until she connected her foot to his solar plexus and vaulted over his head. He heard a _crack_ as she unfurled her whip and brought it around his throat.

“Consider this karma,” she hissed in his ear as he scrabbled at her hands, trying to get enough air.

“Still...bitter...that I didn't want to...kiss you…?” he wheezed, and she jerked the whip back  _hard_ , making him gag. Before his vision went dark, Bruce used a batarang to cut himself free and somersaulted away from Catwoman, struggling for breath. Harley had risen to her feet and relocated the sledgehammer. Bruce backed up against the wall, evaluating his next move. It wasn’t readily apparent. Meanwhile, Bane had ripped free of his tethers and now tore the Bat-Signal from its stand, raising it above his head, ready to crash it down upon him.

Waller fired her gun into the air. “That’s enough! You’re cornered, Batman. Give up  _now_ , or I take you down. What’ll it be?”

A wild, maniacal laughter ricocheted through the air. Something like joy loosened the heaviness in Bruce’s chest and he swung his head around to locate the source of the laughter. It was unmistakable.

_John._

Bane took advantage of Bruce’s momentary distraction to throw the Bat-Signal at his head. Bruce dived out of the way, felt bits of glass skim his jaw. Something hissed through the air and Bruce tensed, waiting for the remainder of Catwoman’s whip to curl around him. Instead, he heard Waller shout, “Motherfucker!” As Bruce looked back at her, the collar fired voltage into Bane’s throat and the behemoth dropped to his knees, bellowing in pain and anger.

“It’s so terribly _rude_ to attack your foe when he’s not looking...and you know I can’t  _abide_ rudeness,” John chided as he emerged from the far side of the roof. In one hand he held what appeared to be a grappling gun, except in place of a hook was a mouth with fanged teeth; in the other hand he held the remote for the Agency’s collars. Behind John trailed two men in clown faces and red noses, carrying assault rifles decorated with stickers.  _Probably scratch and sniff, knowing John._  Bruce thought he recognized the features of Frank and Willy from the Stacked Deck behind the white pancake makeup. They trained their guns on Waller as John holstered his grappler.

“Mr. Doe. How nice of you to join us,” Waller said. “Come to join the cause?”

“C’mon, puddin’,” Harley cooed, “I promise I won’t bite...I’ll only _smash_ your  _fuckin’_ head in.”

“Now, sweetheart,” John responded, “you’ve already had your turn! It’s important to share, y’know.” He pointed at Waller and Batman in turn. “I think these two were hoping to play!” Harley snarled at him, looking as though she was about to to charge; John sighed and rolled his eyes dramatically as he tapped the remote with his thumb. Harley screamed and fell to her side, dropping the hammer as she curled into a fetal position. Catwoman eyed the other woman and relaxed her fighting stance.

“What a sweet little pussycat!” John said, grinning. “You must be awfully fond of those nine lives of yours.” Selina just scoffed.

Bruce stood to face his friend. John looked...different. His hair was smoothed back, as though he had gotten his hands on some of Bruce’s pomade. A slick of red lipstick emphasized John’s pale skin, and he wore a flashy new suit jacket, the cheerful flower replaced by a pocket square. The vest remained, but now there was a neon purple tie tucked into it. He looked good.  _Beautiful, even._

“John--”

“Ah ah!” John wagged a finger. “It’s _Joker_ now. You see, I’ve been doing some soul-searching of late and I decided that “John” just didn’t have enough...pizzazz!” John frowned. “This seems like an appropriate moment for jazz hands, but I think it’s best if I hold onto this for now,” he said, waving the remote.

“Okay...Joker,” Bruce said slowly in his deeply modulated voice. “What is it you want?” His heart was still tap-dancing in his chest at the sight of his friend back from the dead, and he felt dangerously close to tearing his cowl off, pulling John to him, and nuzzling his face into the warm space between his neck and shirt collar. The part of him that wasn’t Batman wanted to give John anything he asked, and more.

“So _impatient_ , Bats! But I love the enthusiasm, I really do,” John said. He moved closer and leaned forward, extending a hand. With a flourish of the wrist, he produced five playing cards from his sleeve. “Pick a card, any card!”

Hesitantly, Bruce reached out and plucked one from John’s fingers. He flipped it over. The card was a blank white and on it in purple crayon were scrawled the words:

_You are cordially invited to JOKER’S BIRTHDAY BASH_

_TONIGHT at <:*) <:*) <:*) _

John flicked a second card at Waller; it hit her in the chest and fell to the ground as she continued to stare him down.

“Huh,” John said. “Not excited? If it helps, I’m not expecting any gifts. Your presence is present enough!” He giggled to himself and fanned out the rest of the cards, then flipped them around to display regular playing cards to Bane, Harley, and Catwoman. “Fresh out of invites, I’m afraid,” he announced sadly, then brightened. “But don’t worry, I still have party favors for everyone!”

John reached into his suit jacket and before Bruce could react, he had thrown a handful of little red orbs with smiley yellow features onto the roof. They started to spin as they hit the ground, purple smoke billowing out of them. Bruce could no longer see them, but he heard Waller and her captives coughing as his vision blurred and he started to lose consciousness. His legs gave out, but he felt someone catch him. Someone shaking with laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I much prefer angst to action scenes and I could have written Bruce moping around forever and ever, but sometimes you gotta move the story along... I hope it was a fun read! The sexual tension will be back in the next chapter, because naturally that's my fav.


	5. A Little Extra Giggle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I had my birthday this last week and it went ALMOST as poorly as Joker's.  
> Thanks to zara2148 for the party hat idea! I couldn't resist incorporating it.  
> This will probably be the second to last chapter. I have some one-shots I want to work on next, though! Thank you to everyone who has read and commented so far. <3

Bruce slowly blinked his eyes open. His vision was still clouded with stars, hazy...he realized that the haze wasn’t his drugged mind, but an actual haze of green steam. He flexed his arms and legs experimentally and found that his wrists were tied together behind him, and his ankles bound to the chair in which he sat. Bruce couldn’t see ~~John~~ Joker yet, but he could hear him very close by, berating Waller.

“I’ve seen a lot of really awful people since I left Arkham, but you? You’re the _worst_. And you’re gonna get what you deserve.”

“What I deserve? What I _deserve_ is some respect.”

“You used Batman. Blackmailed him into doing your dirty work.”

“From what I can tell, you don’t have a problem with Batman doing dirty work… you’re just jealous it was for me and not you.” Bruce heard the _smack_ of what he assumed to be a backhanded slap across Waller’s face, and Joker’s high, gleeful laughter. He lifted his head.

“John.”

“Batsy! I’m so glad you could make it to my little _shindig_ ,” Joker said, punctuating the last word with a vicious kick to Waller’s foreleg. Bruce could now see that he and Waller were seated across from each other at a round table covered with a white tablecloth. Joker’s minions stood nearby. Bruce evaluated the area. He appeared to be on a metal deck of some sort, and above and below were metal walkways. Immediately overhead was hung an immense clown face with blank white eyes and an unnaturally cheerful grin, and below were vats of some bubbling, neon green substance. _Ace Chemicals?_

Joker’s smile echoed the clown’s. He stood next to Waller, and he was in the same outfit as before, though he now sported a polka dot party hat worn rakishly left of center. Joker caught Bruce looking. “Oh, you’re admiring my hat? Don’t worry, I have one for each of you, too!”

Joker produced matching party hats from behind his back. The first he pulled roughly over Waller’s head, letting the elastic snap the underside of her jaw. He skipped to Bruce’s side and looked at him for a moment, tapping his chin in thought.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, and set the hat over one of the bat ears of Bruce’s cowl, gently pulling the elastic down under the bottom edge of the mask. Bruce could swear that his fingers lingered for just a moment longer than necessary. “There. Don’t you look _festive?_ ” Joker turned to his companions and snapped his fingers. “Now that the guest of honor is awake, it’s time for refreshments!” Frank and Willy disappeared briefly and returned carrying a large sheet cake. They set it on the table before Bruce and Waller as Joker clapped his hands and danced in place with excitement. The cake was frosted in white with multicolored sprinkles, and across it **_HAPPY BIRTHDAY JOKER_ ** was written with green icing. Lit candles of sparkly purple wax were scattered haphazardly across the cake.

“Blow!” Joker said, leaning in with a smile. Bruce looked at him.

“...what?”

“Y’know, _make a wish and....?_ It’s a birthday cake, right? I didn’t realize it would be so confusing for you. Aren’t you supposed to be The World’s Greatest Detective?” Joker teased, then pouted extravagantly. “Y’know how to whistle, don’tcha, Bats? Just purse your lips and blow.”

“Oh, blow _me_ ,” Waller interjected angrily. Joker’s reflexes were surprisingly good; he flicked a knife out of his pocket and jammed it into Waller’s thigh almost faster than Bruce could track. Waller yelled in pain and fury. Joker grabbed some frosting from a corner of the cake and smeared it across her mouth to shut her up.

“Now _, where_ are your _manners?_ ” Joker drawled. “You’ve made an absolute _mess_ of yourself. And of me,” he said, inspecting the frosted fingers. He moved to Bruce’s side, then straddled him suddenly. “Just look,” Joker sighed, waving his fingers in front of Bruce’s masked face. “They’re all...sticky. Won’t you...help me?” He leaned against Bruce’s chestplate, pressed his fingertips to Bruce’s mouth, and not-so-gently shoved them past Bruce’s lips. Bruce could taste the sickly sweet vanilla frosting.

“If you won’t blow, maybe you’ll suck,” Joker purred, and Bruce had never been so grateful for his armor’s stupid, uncomfortable, suddenly _very tight_ codpiece. He kept his face stoic and turned his head away in refusal. Joker sighed and removed himself, wiping his hand on the tablecloth. “Fine! I guess I’ll do it. It is _my_ birthday, after all.” He put his hands on his hips and bent over, extinguishing the candles with multiple noisy, sputtering breaths. As the last candle died, the cake exploded. Chunks of cake and frosting splattered onto Bruce, Waller, Joker, and even reached Frank and Willy. Joker cackled madly.

Bruce was starting to lose his party spirit. Subtly, he began to test the binds around his wrists. Lest Joker notice, Bruce started talking. “John--”

“JO-ker,” the latter sing-songed at him.

“...Joker. How’d you choose that name?”

Joker grimaced. “Isn’t it obvious? Look around you! I’m the funniest guy you know!”

“Sure, funny,” Waller muttered under her breath. “Funny in the head. Funny as a heart attack.” Joker made a guttural sound of exasperation and moved as though to attack Waller again. Bruce cut in quickly, hoping to distract him.

“When you jumped off the bridge, that was one hell of a drop. What happened after?”

Joker giggled and turned back to him, looking pleased. “That was _crazy_ , right? It seemed like a fast getaway. Terminal velocity and all. Anyway, I hit -- _sploosh!_ \-- and it was dark and cold and wet for a while. Then I ended up grabbing on to some flotsam...or was it jetsam? No, no, it was flotsam. Floated on that until I hit the shore, found Frank from the Stacked Deck and got some dry clothes. Gave me a different outlook, y’know? New lease on life!” For a moment, Joker sounded giddy, almost like himself. Almost like John.

“I thought...you were dead,” Bruce said softly, feeling a lump form in his throat at the words. He couldn’t quite slip a hand free yet, but he had gained enough mobility to access the communication device on his forearm. He blindly tapped a few buttons, hoping that he had managed to get their coordinates to Alfred, Gordon or Avesta.

“Me, dead? Never! I hope that wasn’t... _wishful thinking_ on your part, _buddy_ . Anyway, if I died, I’d _certainly_ come back to haunt _you_ .” He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “Though in a way, y’know, I did die. John died, when you so cruelly _betrayed_ him,” Joker spat. “But then...I was reborn! As... _JOKER!_ And now I finally know who to be when people tell me... _‘Just be yourself._ ’”

He smiled fiercely. “And I intend to do just that.” He nodded to Willy, who wheeled a large silver canister out. He placed it behind Waller, and untangled long white tubes connected with one red bulb, which he affixed to Waller’s nose so that she took on the appearance of a circus clown with a strange mustache.

“Just what the fuck are you up to?” Waller demanded.

“Since you seem to have lost your sense of humor,” Joker said, “I thought I’d help you out. In this canister is nitrous oxide, also known as ‘laughing gas.’ I might’ve added a little extra _giggle_ in there for you.” He started to twist the release valve. “The nice thing about nitrous is that it’s gonna make you feel suuuper relaxed, pain-free, and light of heart! ...The not so nice thing is that inhaling too much of it can make you, y’know, die.”

“Waller needs to go to trial,” Bruce said, “maybe spend the rest of her life in a cell. But not this! You can’t do this, John.”

“Maybe John couldn’t, but Joker can, and he is,” Joker retorted. “Y’know, I-I don’t know why you’re not more into this! Think of everything she’s put you through! Everyone is disposable to her -- even her own agents!” As he spoke, Waller began contorting against her chair, wracked with giggles. Joker gestured to her. “See!? She’s totally remorseless.”

Joker moved to Waller’s side. He pulled a long knife from his jacket pocket and stroked the flat side of it carefully down one of her cheeks, which by now was wet with tears from her increasingly desperate laughter. Joker flashed a smile at Bruce as he ran the tip of the knife down Waller’s jaw and throat, pausing just below her collarbone.

“If there’s one thing I learned from watching you, it’s that violence solves a _lot_ of problems.” Joker dug the knifepoint into Waller’s flesh, cackling as the blood began to run. Bruce looked on in quiet horror. It didn’t look to have fazed Waller; she didn’t even seem to register the wound, still laughing and laughing...so hard that she seemed to be struggling to breathe by this point. Bruce worked harder on freeing his hands, and finally slipped one loose.

As Joker raised the knife again to stab a new spot on Waller’s body, Bruce flung a batarang at the knife. Joker cried out and clutched his hand as the knife clattered across the ground. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Bruce used another batarang to sever one of the tubes running from Waller’s bulbous nose-piece to the canister. Waller sighed as her diaphragm relaxed, and she appeared to pass out as Bruce kicked his feet free. Willy came at him, and Bruce struck with the chair, breaking it over the man’s head and taking him down. Bruce backed up, then vaulted over the railing. He used his cape to slow the fall, hoping that Joker would come after him.

“Dammit, Batman! Stay out of my way!” Joker cried, leaning over the banister. “What you need...is a distraction.” Joker ran back to Waller and cut her loose from the chair. Wrapping one arm around her, he jerked his head at Frank, who leaped down with his gun to meet Bruce; then Joker grappled upward with the unconscious Waller in tow.

“The way boss talks about you,” Frank grinned, “I thought you’d be bigger.” He took aim at Bruce, who blocked the bullets with his armored forearm as he ran at the bearded man. He disarmed him easily and used the butt of the gun to knock Frank out, then followed Joker to the higher walkways of Ace Chemicals, traveling by grappling gun.

“You move, she dies.” Bruce froze at Joker’s tone. He saw that Waller was once again conscious, but weakened and dazed. Joker had his knife at her throat. “I tried really, really hard to do things your way. But you’re just like Waller. You both justify your crimes as being in the interest of the “greater good.” You both bandy the word “justice” around like you know what it means, so you can do whatever you want! I thought you and I were two threads in the same stitch...but it’s not me, it’s her!”

“I’m nothing like her,” Bruce growled, wanting it to be true. Something about Joker’s words rang through his body like a discordant belltower. He _had_ allowed Waller to blackmail him, had used John, and at the end, he had abandoned his friend... And now it looked like he would need to bring him down.

“Oh, Batsy,” Joker said bitterly, “you’re either lying or as proverbially blind as your namesake. But it doesn’t matter now--” As he spoke, the suddenly vital Waller cocked her shoulder up as she pulled the knife away from her throat and ducked under Joker’s arm, taking advantage of Joker’s surprise to knock him over the railing.

“No!” Bruce shouted, diving to aim his grappling gun at Joker. It captured the front of his vest and dug into his stomach; Joker stopped short of the green chemical pool below with an “oof!” For a moment he just stared up at Bruce. Bruce wanted to rip his cowl off so he could look back with his own eyes, let ~~Joker~~ _John_ see the regret and longing in them.

But a second later, Joker bared his teeth threateningly and used his own grappler to escape to the far side of the boardwalk. Bruce took chase, but was hit with a wave of dizziness as he landed behind Joker, a lingering effect of the chloroform used on him on the GCPD roof. Joker was escaping, running toward the exit with a shriek of laughter.

His mad dash was cut short by two bolts of electricity; Joker fell to his knees before three of Waller’s agents. “He’s down!” they shouted. “Hands where we can see them!”

“You...called _them?_ After everything we’ve been through together,” Joker growled at Bruce through gritted teeth, still on hands and knees, “this is how it ends?” He looked up at the Batman, angry tears glistening in his eyes.

“I’ll get you help,” Bruce said, leaning against the railing and trying to clear his head. “I won’t abandon you.”

“You’re asking me to go back to the beginning? To Arkham? I’ve come too far since then, Batman.” He breathed heavily as the agents surrounded him. “Because of you _. I believed in you._ ” His eyes were wild. “In _us_. Like I never believed in _anything_. And it was all...a **lie!** ”

As he screamed the final word, Joker swiftly rose to his feet, stabbing the agent closest to him through the underside of the chin, up through his mouth in a violent uppercut. In his next motion he had slashed the throat of the female agent on his right. He turned around and stabbed the man behind him multiple times in the gut before tossing him over the railing into the chemical waste below. Joker bent over the agents’ bodies as an eerie laugh bubbled out of him.

 _“John,”_ Bruce gasped as he took in the horrific spectacle. Joker spread his arms wide as he declared again--

“It’s... **JOKER!** ”

\--and dissolved into peals of shrill laughter. Bruce winced and sadly hanged his head. As Joker continued to laugh, his face and clothing covered with other people’s blood, Bruce felt his sense of helplessness and dread masked with a sudden rage. Without thinking, he threw a batarang straight for Joker’s face at a speed that surely would have been deadly had Joker not intercepted the weapon with his own serrated metal smile. Bruce felt relief for only a moment ( _Batman doesn’t kill_ ) before the strike was returned; part of him noted that Joker’s weapon design appeared to be an homage of sorts even as he felt it ricochet off his gauntlet. Twice he disarmed Joker but the man seemed to have an endless supply of “Jokerangs,” and with yet another held high, he charged at Bruce. Bruce dodged, tripped Joker, and punched him to the ground; Joker only laughed and tried again. Bruce kicked him square in the chest, knocking him onto his back.

“That’s enough!” Bruce said. “John, please!”

Joker cackled and grappled away. Bruce followed, but Joker was waiting with a pistol and Bruce barely shielded himself in time. Twice more Joker’s shots glanced off his armor as Bruce tried to overtake him, until at last Bruce disarmed Joker with a flying kick. Grabbing Joker’s arm, he slammed his former friend’s face into the railing, then threw him against another. They sparred for a few seconds -- _Was that a wink? And where had John learned how to fight like this?_ \-- before Bruce smashed a fist into Joker’s nose. Joker merely laughed again and licked his lips, tasting the salty blood that ran down from his nostrils. In the next moment, he was able to slip a Jokerang past Bruce’s defenses to bury it in his side. Bruce grunted and stumbled, pausing for breath, as Joker grappled away again.

Bruce sprinted after him as well as he could as Joker disappeared into an old control room. As he staggered into the doorway, Bruce saw Joker standing before a bulletin board, his back heaving with mirth.

_I always laugh when I’m nervous._

“I was such an idiot,” Joker said at last. Over his shoulder, Bruce could see various photos that John had taken of himself with Riddler, with Harley...with him. The majority of the space was taken up with photos of the two of them. Bruce looked at the photo John had taken of the two of them the night he met Batman for the first time. John’s huge smile was utterly guileless, delighted.

“I was so busy looking at you. Admiring you. Wanting y--wanting to be like you.” Joker’s voice cracked. “Be _loved_ by you.”

Bruce didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. His entire body ached; his flesh alternated hot and cold, clammy with sweat. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he would just cry.

“I lost myself in you,” Joker continued. Somehow there was another knife in his hand. _“But not anymore.”_

He lunged at Bruce, who summoned the last of his willpower to dodge, and dodge again. Time seemed to slow as he batted Joker’s hand aside and punched him the face, or maybe Joker’s laugh had become more labored, more of a groan. Bruce swung and knocked Joker onto the control panel, but he was up again in moments. He reached for Bruce as though to caress his face, and the hidden buzzer in his palm jolted Bruce with electricity. Bruce sank to the floor with gritted teeth and Joker advanced on him with two knives held high, as though to carve him up for dinner. Bruce stuck a Bat Stunner to Joker’s stomach and the man convulsed. Bruce pushed Joker back against the control panel and held him down while his body shook with the EMP mine’s voltage.

Somehow, Joker rose to look at Bruce and smile through the seizures. He stabbed Bruce in the thigh and Bruce retaliated by breaking his arm. Joker screamed and tried to attack again. Bruce impaled him through the palm with a batarang, fastening him to the control panel, and Joker screamed again, his voice raw with anguish. As Joker made one final attempt to gore Bruce with a knife, Bruce headbutted him and he fell back, laughing that painful, constricted laugh that faded into a groan of defeat. Bruce backed up until he hit the wall, then slid down to sit on the floor, his legs interlaced with Joker’s. Joker made as if to free himself, scuffling his feet ineffectually; he quickly gave up.

The two stared at each other, panting, completely spent.

“I guess...that's it. Are you as turned on as I am right now?” Joker asked with a sly smile. Bruce coughed and shook his head.

“I don’t think we’re into the same kinks. This will never work.” Joker’s mouth dropped open, then he laughed weakly.

“I must have gotten at least a few good hits in if the Batman is making sex jokes...well, any jokes, really. You sound concussed.”

Bruce was silent for a long time, his eyes closed. Joker gazed at him until he was satisfied that he was breathing steadily. Then he shut his eyes, ready to give in to the shock that threatened to overtake him. Even though the adrenaline of mania had faded from his body, he barely registered any pain.

“It’s because I loved you.” Joker’s eyes shot open and he stiffly turned his head to look at Bruce.

 _“_ . _..what?_ ”

“You asked me. On the bridge.” Bruce’s voice was hoarse. It was suddenly so hot in that little room. He reached up and took his cowl off, heard Joker gasp quietly. He continued, “You said, ‘Tell me why.’ I’m telling you. I was...afraid...of losing you. Forever. That’s why I made the choice that I did. Maybe you would hate me, but at least...you would be safe.” He sighed. “I realized something in the Old Five Points earlier that day.”

“Hmm…” Joker scratched his head thoughtfully. “That you’re a huge asshole?”

“No. I mean, yes, I _am_...but that’s not...entirely it. I realized...I realized you were a person--”

“Oh gee, thanks,” Joker grunted.

“--a person with a heart,” Bruce soldiered on. “I realized that I had taken you for granted...as a friend...and maybe something...more. That I really did care about you. And when I realized that, I knew that I couldn’t just keep using you...that I had to think about what would help _you_. And then in the Fun House, I was so afraid that I had lost my chance, and then...angry, and desperate, and...broken-hearted, because I hadn’t, but I had.”

“You’re not making a ton of sense here, Brucie.”

Bruce sighed and looked into John’s eyes, lips tugging up in a half-smile. “I never said I was good at this. The Batman doesn’t need to talk, he just punches communication into..and out of...people.”

Bruce reached out, palm open.

“John, I am so, so sorry. I wanted to save you, but I was too late. I made this mess we’re in, and now you have to bear the consequences. It isn’t fair. I promise I will do everything I can to make it okay, and if I could I would just go back in time and do it right the first time.”

“No,” ~~Joker~~ John said suddenly, eyes intent on Bruce. “I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t do that, because even though I should hate you, even though I’m going to need one hell of a Band-Aid for this” -- gesturing at the Batarang driven through his hand -- “I had so much _fun_ with you, Bruce. I’m not an idiot. It didn’t take me long to figure out what was going on. I didn’t care. I just wanted...to be close to you. If you weren’t ready to do that on my terms...I was happy to wait.”

He laughed, or something like it. Bruce couldn’t tell if a sob had bubbled out of his throat or if his nose was broken. Possibly both.

“I knew I would never have gotten the chance if you hadn’t needed something from me. People like you...they aren’t _friends_ with people like me.”

“Then that’s their loss,” Bruce said fiercely. “That would have been _my_ loss. You didn’t need me to teach you how to be good, John. You taught me. I thought I needed you then, but I know I need you now. Just you. No strings attached...just two threads.” Bruce’s throat felt tight, a keening sound threatening to break loose.

“But I thought…” John frowned. “You said ‘loved.’ You _loved_ me on the Gotham Bridge. Past tense. After all I’ve done...”

Bruce set the cowl down on the floor and rolled slowly to his knees. Every muscle in his body screamed at him, no louder than the pounding of his heart. He crawled toward John, close enough to catch the trembling of the other man’s lips. Were those tear tracks down his face, or just sweat? He knelt there in front of him and took John’s face tenderly into his hands.

“God,” Bruce croaked, “you look awful.” He was rewarded with the smile that stretched slowly across John’s face, the chuckle that shook his slight frame until it spilled over into wild laughter. Bruce laughed with him until the laughter broke open into tears of relief and sorrow.

“Bruce,” John said at last, “you are one messed up guy.”


	6. Reason In Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning! Turns out I wanted to stay up all night to finish this. It's a shorter chapter, but hopefully it offers a little closure and some tenderness. Thank you for reading!

Bruce arrived at Arkham with an embarrassment of riches: a stack of cash; a “get well soon” card; a venti mocha frappuccino with extra whipped cream; and a selfie stick. The cash was for the orderly who eyed him suspiciously when he said he was a visitor for John Doe -- “No one ever visits  _ him” _ \-- but led him to John’s room anyway once he was properly “persuaded.” John had seemed his old self when he saw Bruce standing just outside his door, exclaiming brightly at the sight of the beautiful man adjusting his tie in the hallway like he wasn’t completely out of his element.

Once inside, Bruce recognized that John was in his old room at Arkham, unless every room had broken wall tile in the shape of a fist. And he saw, too, that John was  _ not  _ his old self. He was smaller, quieter. Bruce found himself missing John’s uncannily direct stare, his too-broad smile.

Bruce proffered his gifts and John slowly accepted them and set them on the bedside table, next to the framed portrait of him with Batman, then sat down on his bed. Bruce sagged a little. He had been pretty sure that the selfie stick would be a hit at least.

“Do you...want to take a photo?” he suggested, sitting down and waving his phone in front of John’s face.

“Why are you here?” John asked.

“What….? Did...did that conversation at Ace Chemicals not happen? When I said...when I told you--” Bruce asked, feeling anxious and surprised.

“It’s been weeks,” John said flatly. Bruce cringed.

“I’m sorry…I’ve had a lot to wrap up. But I said I wouldn’t abandon you,” Bruce said. John frowned and looked down. He ran a thumb over the scar across the back of his hand, a scar Bruce knew was mirrored in his palm. It was still healing, a puffy, angry red, but at least he still  _ had  _ a hand...after what Bruce had done to him.

“I’m all out of blind faith, Bruce. Give me a reason to trust you again.” Bruce didn’t speak and John heaved a sigh. “If all you’ve got are things --  _ bribes  _ \-- then you can just leave.”

“I’ve given up the cowl,” Bruce said. John looked at him sharply.

“Why the heck would you do that?” He looked suspicious, then angry. “Is it because of me?”

“Yes...n-no!” Bruce said hastily. “Alfred, h-he was going to leave and after everything that happened with you I just…” Bruce rubbed the back of his neck. This wasn’t going how he had hoped. “I’m just sick and tired of running from my feelings, I guess. I thought I became Batman to protect the city I loved, to make it safe for its citizens so they would never have to feel the way I did when my parents were taken from me. But now I think that maybe I didn’t know how to deal with my emotions, and Batman was a convenient distraction. He...I just made it worse. Those late nights as Batman mean nothing to me now, not compared to what I almost lost. I need to be honest about how I feel. I want...to apologize,” Bruce finished lamely. He took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, so sorry.” He took both of John’s hands in his. “Tell me that this isn’t the end of us.”

“Geez, Bruce, this is getting serious,” John said sarcastically, but he didn’t pull away. Bruce leaned closer, daring to rest his forehead against John’s. He closed his eyes.

“I heard what you said. I don’t want you to lose yourself,” Bruce whispered. “I want to lose  _ myself. _ In you.” He felt John tremble, heard what sounded like a stifled sob. “Can we start over?”

“I don’t know...there’s so much…” John said. “How can we go back to the beginning?”

“Well,” Bruce said, smiling, “I’ll take a do-over on that lousy kiss, for starters.” He tilted his head and moved in slowly, giving John the chance to back out if it wasn’t what he wanted. But John was there to meet Bruce’s mouth with his, pressing his chapped lips to Bruce’s with an endearing lack of experience. Bruce reached for him, wrapping one arm around his waist and using his other hand to slide up the back of John’s neck and into his hair, twining his fingers through the silky green strands and pulling ever so gently. Bruce felt John’s small moan of pleasure against his mouth and his heart spasmed. 

Bruce pulled away and John followed, his eyes still closed. Bruce could hardly bear the sweetness of it; he cupped John’s face tenderly. John looked at him then, and in his eyes Bruce saw it all: affection, a touch of delirium, worry, sadness, fear. One kiss couldn’t fix it all, though Bruce realized that he had hoped that it would, like in a fairytale. There was no turning back time.

_ Maybe...that’s not what we need anyway, _ Bruce realized.  _ Maybe it’s important that we accept that everything that happened, happened, and learn to live with it. _ He had the image of a coral reef growing around the wreckage of an old warship. The life amongst death; beauty interwoven with ugliness; reason in chaos.  _ This is how we grow. _

John was watching him and Bruce could tell that he was becoming increasingly awkward the longer Bruce stayed silent.

“Uh, Bruce,” John began, pulling back and starting to wring his hands. “Are-are you...regretting anything? I know I’m a little, er, a  _ lot  _ rusty, but it wasn’t  _ that  _ bad, w-was it?” he said, laughing nervously.

“I love you,” Bruce said simply.

John stared at him. “Come again?”

“John,” Bruce said patiently, “I  _ love  _ you. I don’t know why I waited so long to tell you. Maybe if I hadn’t...it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that I love you, and I will do anything I can to make you feel that.”

John made a small sound and leaned against Bruce’s shoulder, tucking his face under Bruce’s chin. Bruce pulled him in and held him close.

“I’m not ready yet,” John said finally. Bruce held him tighter.

“That’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”


End file.
